


Fighting Dirty

by RosemarysBabysitter (TashaElizabeth)



Series: Goretober Prompts [20]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dean is the Backstage Bicycle, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaElizabeth/pseuds/RosemarysBabysitter
Summary: Goretober Prompt: Other Bodily Fluids. Although this is a goretober prompt it's more just gross than gory.





	Fighting Dirty

You got up close and personal working in this business. You got messy. Sweat, yeah, sweat, Dean got sweated on all over, and not just in the ring. Got dripped on and smeared on and rolled around on the canvas in puddles of it. Blood too, in all the same places, only it dried sticky and then flaked off afterward like pain confetti. That was nothing, standard fare.

And he didn’t just mean come either, although there was plenty of come. Dean had a thing for come, the slick feel of it and the hot taste and the texture of it drying on his skin. Dean was always down for sucking down a mouthful of the stuff, for getting shot all over his face or his chest, for lapping it off thighs and stomachs.

But that didn’t make Dean dirty, didn’t coat him all over with the delicious feel of deviancy, the hot excitement of extremes. He needed more, and he got it. The way Dean lived? The way he worked and fought and screwed? He got downright filthy.

He got Seth puking in his lap as they sat outside a sports bar. It was too late at night for Dean to care and he just patted Seth warmly on the back and told him to get it all up. Seth spasmed again and Dean moved him just enough to aim him toward the gutter and even got most of his hair balled up in one fist at the back of Seth’s head to keep it out of the spray. “This officially makes you my girlfriend,” he muttered and Seth moaned miserably.

They had to leg it pretty fast after that and went six blocks in the wrong direction before they realized they had to turn around. It was raining by then. The rain washed all the sick off Dean’s pants, frizzed out Seth’s hair, and then continued until it soaked them both through. By the time they got to the hotel they were shivering so hard Dean couldn’t get his card in the lock and Seth’s teeth were chattering. They were out of their clothes practically before the door shut and then fighting for towels and blankets with trembling hands.

He got a friendly bout with Sami Zayn, as friendly as fights ever got anyway, while Sami had possibly the worst head cold anyone had ever caught in the history of the world. He got a pin attempt on him and, when he was bowed over his upraised leg, he got Sami sneezing directly into his face, splattering his cheek with droplets. And worse, in that half second, he saw the thick clot of snot that was streaking down from Sami’s nose. Sami half rolled over to get away from the camera and then realized that flipping to his stomach would only make it worse. Sami grimaced pathetically and then Dean kneed him in the face hard enough to wipe all of the mess onto the disaster of his jeans. 

Sami, mortified, came to him backstage to apologize. He was talking thick, slurring syllables with congestion, eyes bleary and Dean had just taken the hem of his own t-shirt and wiped the inside of it across Sami’s forehead. Then he asked Sami if he needed someone to put him to bed and only really leered when Sami rolled his eyes. 

He got arguments in a locker room about whether or not the gash on Sheamus’s back was infected. A crowd of guys clustered around while Sheamus leaned forward on the bench, talking shit back and forth like any of them knew anything. Sheamus wasn’t listening to anyone, especially anyone telling him he shouldn’t fight that night. He was digging in his suitcase for a roll of bandages, something to cover up the streaky red outline the cut had developed. Dean pushed his way to the front and put his hands on Sheamus himself, pinched the surrounding skin between his fingers so that Sheamus howled, stood up and swung around at him. Dean shoved his fingers, the tips streaked with tendrils of pus, practically up Sheamus’s nose.

There was more arguing, the locker room descending on Sheamus like a flock of mother hens. Dean wiped the pus on his t-shirt, made Sheamus sit down again, turn around. He got a safety pin off Roman and lit up the end for few seconds with his lighter. Then he worked a two inch long splinter out of the flesh of Sheamus’s back. Sheamus offered to thank him, offered it with a smirk and a raised eyebrow and Dean promised to take him up on it soon. Seth only made about eighteen jokes that night about him ‘playing doctor’ with Sheamus, which Dean took as a sign of his approval.

He got drunk in some thick, sweltering swamp town and staggered from a bar with his head whiskey dizzy and stars in his eyes. He tried to take a shortcut to the burger place down the road, got turned around, ended up in an alley trying to find his way back to the main strip. The only light down there was a sickly yellow street lamp, with moths and flies dive bombing it and a funny buzzing sound coming from its base. Leaning in the corner between the wall and the building's fire escape was Cesaro, pissing against the bricks. Cesaro turned his head to look at him, his eyes just as foggy and distant as Dean’s. 

Dean made his move before his brain had processed the scene. Creeping close enough so that the spray caught the bottoms of his jeans. He got Cesaro grinning at him in that easy, knowing way of his while a hot, sick thrill lit up the bottom of Dean’s stomach. Cesaro finished, shook off, put a friendly hand on Dean’s shoulder and then shoved him down into the puddle he had just made. The hot wet soaked through the knees of Dean’s jeans immediately. He groaned, opened his mouth, took Cesaro’s cock in soft and let it get hard against his tongue.

He got Brock holding him down on a grimy locker room floor, sometime after the fighting and the hate got too close and hot and blurry. Brock’s thick thigh grinding down against his shameless dick and his hot sour breath in Dean’s face. A minute ago, he’d been staring Brock down while he worked those thighs up and down on a weight machine. The muscles were still hot, even through Dean’s gym shorts, and the muscles in Dean’s arms still ached from too much weight, too much tension, too much need.

Brock stopped grinding on Dean long enough to work off his own t-shirt and then to force his fingers, hot, thick, long fingers tasting like metal, between Dean’s teeth. “Open,” Brock ordered and Dean only resisted a moment, just on principle, before he let Brock pry open his jaw. Brock looked down into the hollow of Dean’s throat, grinned, and then dribbled a long line of spit and made Dean swallow.

He got Roman hugging him close and honest to god crying on him. Getting his shoulder all wet through the fabric of his t-shirt and digging the gold belt into his side and Dean being too happy to care that it wasn’t him who’d won. Roman wiped his eyes against the side of Dean’s neck so that the fellas wouldn’t notice and paused a second at the shiver that went through Dean, at the goosebumps that lit up his skin.

Later he got Roman creeping to his hotel room in the middle of the night. He got a hesitant, shaky kiss, pressing him back against the locked door and Roman’s hands on his jeans, pulling him so close and still he thought he might split at the seams. And he got Roman crying on him again, this time while Dean’s legs were wrapped around his waist. Just a few tears and they both pretended it was beads of sweat, but they let Dean read the full meaning in Roman’s voice when he said, “wanted this for a long time, baby,” and “needed this, you don’t know how much,” and “never thought...look at you...so pretty, so pretty...can’t believe you’re mine.”

Somehow that made Dean feel dirtiest of all.


End file.
